The Club - Ep. 09 - The Machine

Heather had woken before dawn. She hadn't set an alarm--her body had simply known. Her room was quiet, the air still. She had watched the light shift across the ceiling, too alert to sleep, too uncertain to move. By the time the house began to stir, she was already dressed and downstairs.

The dining room was empty when she arrived. A long wooden table, freshly set. Pale cloth, polished silver, a small vase of white flowers. Even the table seemed to hold its breath. She hadn't meant to be first, but something in her had wanted space. Time.

Mira passed once, her footsteps soft, her eyes unreadable.

She didn't stop, but she gave Heather the smallest glance--acknowledging her, perhaps. Or offering something quieter: You're exactly where you should be.

After that, time had blurred. She remembered the stillness more than the moments.

A nod. A hallway. A quiet knock on Elin's door.

No one else had been there. Just Elin--precise and composed as always, though something about her felt softer this morning.

"You'll wear this," she'd said, holding the harness in both hands like it meant something. "This one is soft. Not to hold you. Just to remind you."

She had paused--just briefly.

"The first time stays with you," she had added, her voice quieter.

Heather had hesitated. "What was yours?"

Elin didn't smile. "Another time," she said. Then turned away.

Now Heather stood still.

The room they had chosen for her--where whatever was about to happen would begin --was white. Its surfaces caught the light without reflection, soft and even like the inside of a shell. Somewhere behind the walls, a faint hum vibrated--low, steady, almost imperceptible. The air smelled of linen and something faintly metallic, like untouched glass.

She wore a black robe. Lightweight. It brushed her skin like a whisper. Beneath it, Elin had fastened something minimal--a network of matte black straps, crossing her chest and back.

The leather hugged just below her breasts, framing them instead of hiding them, lifting them slightly. It was strange how much it changed things. She could feel it in her posture. How it made her stand differently. Straighter. Aware. It didn't cover anything. But it made her feel dressed.

Then she saw it.

The frame stood in the center of the room. Metal. Padded with dark leather. Plain. Functional. Built not to impress, but to receive.

Her breath caught. It didn't look like furniture. It looked like equipment. Something made to hold. To bind. To witness. Something about its silence made the room feel fuller. Closer.

Her fingers twitched at her side. Part of her wanted to turn away. Another part stepped closer--in thought, not with her feet.

The door opened. A man stepped in--tall, dressed in dark clothes, hair lightly graying at the temples. His face was calm, unreadable. He didn't look around. Just met her eyes.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Dorian." His voice was low, even. Heather gave a small nod. Something in her chest tightened. Not fear. Not exactly. Just the quiet weight of being seen.

He didn't move closer yet, but his voice found her again. "I meant to be here before you arrived," he added, a faint crease at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't want you to walk into this space alone." A pause.

"But you handled it." Then, softer: "Heather, I'm here to make sure everything goes the way you want it to. I won't interfere unless you need me. And if you do, I'll be right here.

Remember, you have control. Use your safeword at any time, for any reason."

A beat passed. Then he stepped aside as another person entered.

She wore a sleeveless black blouse, tucked into gray trousers that sat low on her hips. The fabric was soft, the lines precise. No jewelry. Just lipstick--subtle, but unmistakably red.

Heather couldn't decide if it was the shape of her body or the way she moved, but something about her made it hard to look away. Too polished to be casual. Too composed to be cold.

"This is Alba," Dorian said simply. He didn't explain more. Just met Heather's eyes once, then let Alba take the space.

She stepped closer, slow and certain, as if giving Heather a last chance to change her mind. But Heather didn't move.

Alba reached for the knot of the robe, her fingers precise, unhurried. She undid it without ceremony, then eased the fabric from Heather's shoulders--slowly, carefully, like something known, not owned.

The robe slid down Heather's arms in a whisper. Alba caught it before it fell, folded it in one motion without ever glancing down.

Her eyes moved across Heather. Like someone used to handling bodies. Not searching for beauty or flaws, but something else entirely--structure, response, readiness.

Heather felt the air against her skin now. Everywhere. Her nipples were already stiff, exposed between the lines of the harness. She couldn't have hidden it anyway.

"The harness stays," Alba said. Her voice was soft, but steady. She reached out, adjusted one of the straps--not to control, only to center it. Heather's chest lifted with the contact. A touch. A reminder.

Alba turned, walked toward the frame. She didn't look back--but her hand gestured once, lightly. An invitation. A beginning.

Heather followed. Not with ease, but without pause. She stepped up. Breathed in. Then slowly lay down. The leather was cool beneath her. The silence immediate.

Alba's hands moved with quiet purpose--positioning her arms, her thighs, her ankles, her wrists.

Each touch confirmed what Heather already knew: She wouldn't move again until they let her.

Alba stood still. Then leaned in. "You won't be alone," she said. "But it will feel like you are. That's part of it."

Heather swallowed. Her breath grew shallow.

Dorian stepped forward--not close, just enough for her to see him one last time.

"We'll be watching over you," he said, his voice calm. "If you need anything, just speak. You won't be left alone."

Then he turned, following Alba toward the door. The lock clicked. And silence returned.

Heather lay still, the white room seemed to stretch around her, as though she was the only element left in existence. She felt nothing but the coldness of the air and the faint vibration that crept through the floor. Her skin was too loud, every inch suddenly felt exaggerated. Why is the air so cold down there? The sensation on her skin was almost intrusive, like it was trying to tell her something she didn't want to hear.

Her fingers tried again. A small tug. But the restraints held firm. It doesn't make sense. I know it doesn't make sense. The resistance wasn't an attempt to escape, but more of a test.

She had long accepted that she couldn't get away. But her muscles burned as though they refused to acknowledge that truth. I wanted this. But she had never really known how it would feel.

The silence was suffocating. The cold, the pressure of the restraints--the absence of control--it pressed down on her, heavier with each breath. She wanted to scream, to pull away, but there was no space. No escape. The helplessness didn't just make her feel small--it made her question if she was strong enough to endure. Her fingers twitched again, testing the restraints, as if hoping they might somehow loosen. She couldn't escape, but the thought of giving in sent a rush of heat through her chest.

What would the old me think if she could see me now? The version I thought I had to be--composed, in control, with all the answers. Where did she go? She could feel the weight of the questions, but she couldn't answer them. The thoughts came like a fast-moving stream, pulling her under, but she held still.

What am I even doing here? Her body felt like it was betraying her, as if her own skin was working against her will, each breath making her feel more exposed. Will this feel good or wrong? Could I ever really accept this? Could I give in to it, or am I just pretending to want this?

The sounds around her grew louder, her heartbeat thudding in her chest. She could feel it now--her body, every breath, every twitch of her skin. I can't move. I can't do anything. Then--What if no one comes back? The thought was so small, almost like a joke, but it lingered. What if I'm just left here? The room was too big, too empty. I'm not alone. Am I?

Then something shifted. Not outside--but in her. A breath that didn't rush. A stillness that wasn't silence, but presence.

She was still here. Still breathing. Still choosing. It didn't feel like surrender. Not exactly. But it no longer felt like resistance either. She didn't know if this was strength or just exhaustion. But it was hers. It wasn't calm. But it was enough.

And yet--when the door creaked open, something in her lifted. The moment is over. Dorian stepped closer. He's here. It felt almost like a rescue, no matter how small the contact. She felt the touch of his hand, and it was enough. A bit of air she could breathe, a bit of control returning. He's here.

"You did well," he said quietly, his voice grounding her. His hand lingered just long enough to remind her she was not alone. The simple words hit her like a soft release--something she hadn't realized she was waiting for. The space she had been holding in her chest for so long seemed to soften, just for a moment, as if the air had shifted, allowing her to breathe in deeper.

She was grateful he had come back. But even if he hadn't--something in her had already begun to settle. And maybe that was what scared her most.

Then Alba returned. Quiet. Precise. She rolled a slim tray to the table's edge: a bottle of gel, a cloth, a remote.

"I'll prepare you," she said. "You'll feel me first. Then the machine."

Heather gave a small nod. Alba warmed the gel between her palms and knelt between Heather's spread thighs.

"Breathe."

Her fingers glided over Heather's folds. Cool. Gentle. Intentional.

Heather flinched. Her stomach tightened. But then she softened. The gel was slick. Alba's touch unhurried. Circling. Knowing. Almost clinical in its precision--but warm.

Heather's breath stuttered. The helplessness, the stillness--it made her feel everything sharper. Her body responded before her mind could catch up. The sensation was almost overwhelming. She couldn't move, couldn't escape. This was the moment she had feared--exposed, vulnerable, and at the mercy of another's will.

But beneath the fear, there was something else--something raw, something she hadn't anticipated: a surge of curiosity, of wanting to feel everything fully, deeply.

Alba's fingers reached the entrance. She paused. „It's ready. I'll go slow--just let me know how it feels."

Heather didn't speak. Her face flushed with heat, her body taut with anticipation.

Her hips tilted involuntarily, betraying the mix of fear and desire pulsing through her.

It pressed forward--slowly, evenly. Not like skin. Not like fingers. Like liquid precision--cool, firm, inevitable.

As if it knew exactly how to enter. Heather gasped, her muscles tightening with the first contact. The breath left her before she could catch it.

Alba placed one hand low on Heather's belly. The pressure was light--steady enough to be felt, soft enough to stay ambiguous. Her other hand guided the shaft.

The stretch came like a tide--smooth, but insistent. An involuntary shiver ran through her limbs. Her pulse quickened with each inch. The sense of being opened--of something so foreign--was almost overwhelming. She wasn't full yet. But her body already trembled with the idea of it.

„Just a little more," Alba murmured, her hands steady. The machine slid forward, slow and deliberate, filling her in a single, controlled movement. Then it was inside.

Full.

Deep.

Like metal shaped to her core.

Heather felt an odd sense of disconnect, as though her mind and body were still trying to catch up to the moment. Every inch of her skin felt hypersensitive, as if the quiet around her was closing in. She didn't know whether to cry out or be silent, to hold on or let go. She didn't know if it was the relief of fullness or the quiet terror of vulnerability, but something about this moment felt heavier than anything she had ever known.

Alba stood. She picked up the remote from the table's edge.

"I'll leave you now. No one will interfere. But you are not alone."

The door closed behind her. Heather lay still, feeling the machine begin to move. The first strokes were smooth, unchanging. The same angle, the same rhythm. No surprises. But something in her shifted. The machine's steady pace seemed to match her breathing now, as if they were moving together in a strange harmony.

She had wanted this--hadn't she? But with every stroke, it became clear: she wasn't just being filled. She was being changed.

And then something shifted.

The rhythm deepened--still mechanical, but no longer neutral.

The stroke grew longer, the pressure more insistent.

Not pain.

Just intensity.

Heather gasped. Her back arched instinctively. She tried to tilt her hips, angle herself for more--but the frame didn't allow it. She whimpered. Not from fear. From desire.

The machine responded. A notch faster. Then steadier again. The soft hum of the motor deepened. Almost like a response.

A single, perfect stroke.

Deeper than before.

Harder.

Her body jolted; the harness clenched, a reminder etched in leather. The impact reverberated through her pelvis like a struck bell. Programmed? An accident? The machine gave no answer, already resuming its rhythm as if nothing had happened.

Each thrust brought a sound--low as it filled her, higher as it pulled back. Like breath reversed. Her thighs tensed. Her stomach fluttered. Her nipples throbbed, stiff against the air. Her breath was a scatter of shallow highs.

She wanted to hold back, stretch it. Just a little longer. But the rhythm didn't wait. The next thrusts felt different--not harder, but more. As if that one brutal stroke had rewired her capacity to feel.

The machine kept moving. Kept filling her. Kept demanding.

She tried to shift, to catch the right angle, to make it perfect--but the machine didn't care. It did what it did.

And then it happened.

Wave after wave crashed through her--no longer just pleasure, but revelation.

She gasped.

Moaned.

Cried out.

It didn't stop. Another wave hit. Stronger.

She tried to push it away, but her body said yes. Again. Again.

She trembled, thighs shaking, chest rising--breasts full and flushed, the nipples dark and tight, almost aching with each breath.

The final crest took her entirely. Her voice broke, then vanished. She strained into the cuffs, not to escape--but to meet it fully.

And then--stillness.

The machine stopped.

Her body dropped back into silence like a bell that had stopped ringing.

Every nerve still hummed. Her mouth open. Her eyes wide. She didn't cry. But she was close.

She hadn't known she could feel like this. She hadn't known a machine could teach her something real. Minutes passed. Or seconds. She wasn't sure.

Alba's hands were there before she registered the door opening. Cool fingers undoing cuffs. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders with surprising care. A fold here, a tuck there. Not tight, but intentional. As if sealing something in.

Heather didn't speak. But she felt it. The warmth. The shape of care, without form. Something in the way Alba's hands moved--not just to cover, but to hold--stilled the last tremors in her chest. She lay still. Her eyes open. Just staring at the ceiling.

Something had happened.

And she had no words for it.

Not yet.